


Now Playing: The Potter-Black Deal Of '76

by Grace_28



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Redemption, References to Depression, References to eating disorders, Slow Burn, Theatre
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:48:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29104311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grace_28/pseuds/Grace_28
Summary: Back at Hogwarts for his Eighth Year, Draco wondered if Potter would ever be capable of leaving him alone. As if spending a month in Azkaban wasn't enough, the universe decided to give him a middle finger and force him to play the lead in a retelling of his uncles' heroism. Practicing his cringe-worthy lines with Potter every weekend was the last thing he wanted to do.-----"The Potter-Black Deal of '76"Though they were rather infamous for it, the Potters and the Blacks weren't always butting heads. James Potter and Sirius Black got along quite finely during their years at Hogwarts, just like how their Slytherin siblings had. With the war tensions running high, Hyacinthe Potter and Regulus Black form a pack that goes beyond just life and death.Presented to you by:Hogwarts' Muggle Theatre ClassMain cast:Draco Malfoy as Hyacinthe Potter, Harry Potter as Regulus Black
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 10
Kudos: 17





	1. Potter's Old Habits Die Hard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was requested by dracosflowers <3

"Kill me now," Draco dramatically drawled as he threw himself onto the bed.

Blaise— the bastard— laughed. And, as if he didn't think that was enough to piss Draco off, the bastard had the audacity to turn the chair around so he could laugh at Draco in his face.

Draco scowled, wondering if anyone would mind if he accidentally-on-purpose hexed his best friend. He was pretty sure the only person who would care was Pansy, but the witch was a bit too busy stirring up trouble in France at the moment. She couldn't hurt him from thousands of miles away.

At least, Draco sure hoped she couldn't.

"Why, hello to you too, darling," Draco's bastard-of-a-friend teased.

"I ought to kill you," he snarled.

Blaise simply snickered. "We both know you love me too much for purposeful manslaughter. Besides, don't you need me to listen to whatever a random poor bloke did to make you so dramatic?"

"It wasn't a random bloke," Draco grumbled. "It was Professor Hayes and her... her incredibly _lame_ assignment! I can't find any bloody thing to write about!"

"Wasn't the assignment to write about yourself or something similar to that? As a self-conceited git, eight inches should be no issue for you."

Draco no longer cared if Pansy could or could not hurt him from a far away distance. He'd very much like to hex Blaise once or twice at the moment. Too bad he couldn't.

"Don't talk to yourself in the second-person. I heard it's bad for one's complexion," Draco sweetly snapped instead.

Blaise rolled his eyes and folded his arms. "Bad complexion or not, this sort of situation is rather rare, Draco. It's not like you to be frustrated with school work. Especially when it's about you. The Draco I know would be bouncing off the walls and going off about 'the incredibly pure heritage of Draco Malfoy'," he mocked.

"Merlin's beard," Draco hushed. "That crazy witch said this will practically be our 'audition' for the 'play' she's putting on. I don't even know what those two things are!"

"An audition is quite similar to Quidditch tryouts, but you don't need a broom or anything like that. A play, on the other hand, is a series of dramatic events you can put together to tell a story. It's sort of like a moving portrait, but we're outside of the portraits and we're in character anyways," Blaise informed stupidly.

"Thank you for the information I will most likely never use after Hogwarts," he drawled. Though— when he took a moment to think about it— that statement applied to everything he'd ever learnt at Hogwarts. Still. "What have you been writing down for it?"

"Absolutely nothing," Blaise proudly declared, even though he should be _worried_. Draco marveled at how some people could not freak about the due dates of an assignment when it was Tuesday and they only had three days to work on it before turning it in. "Why would I think about it now?"

Draco sighed and allowed his face to make an impact with his pillow.

"I forget you can be a complete buffoon sometimes."

The words were sadly muffled by his pillow.

"Not everyone is capable of being productive, Draco," Blaise had the audacity to say. Luckily for him, he was smart enough to wave his wand and conjure an imitation of Draco's precious Hungarian Horntail plush. Blaise handed him to Draco with a small smile. "Not everyone has Cepheus to help them finish homework in two seconds flat either."

"That's an unnecessary exaggeration," Draco drawled, but he snatched the plush up and snuggled into him. Feeling loads better already, Draco sat up and peered over his best friend's shoulder. "Are you writing Pansy?"

"Of course. She's rather pissed you aren't."

"I have been. I write her every week," he insisted. Then, he paused. "Did you sincerely not write anything down? It's an empty parchment for you where there should be twelve inches?"

"Yes, but I assume she wants us to introduce ourselves to her— our names, birthdays, duties, and interests. All these amongst others, of course."

"How am I supposed to write twelve inches like that?" Draco demanded. He resisted the urge to tug on his hair and screech his frustrations out to a pillow; instead, he pouted his lips and batted his eyelashes, hoping Blaise would do all the thinking for him.

"Write bigger. Or perhaps you can talk about your happiest memories?" Blaise offered. "That would be a brilliant idea as long as you do not mention Slytherin parties in one of the examples."

Draco scoffed, but there was a slight twitching at the corner of his lips. "Must I remind you how before she was a teacher, Professor Hayes was a Slytherin? She knows about the bloody parties. She should be more concerned for my so-called 'happy memories'."

What a joke.

He could count with one hand how many memories he could consider 'happy,' but even then, they'd been righteously stolen. Draco Malfoy had no happy memories. He couldn't write about something he no longer had.

Blaise chuckled and turned back to Draco's table. "Alright, fine. Get out. I've got work to do and I've already helped you with some ideas."

"This room is mine," Draco gently reminded.

"This room is also occupied," Blaise corrected. Then he shooed Draco away with a flick of his hand, not about to give him any more attention even if Draco begged for it.

"Git," Draco muttered.

Several Slytherins stared at him as he walked through the Common Room, the stale awkwardness and respect-slash-fear slicing through their conversations as he ignored them. Draco barely resisted the urge to punch one of them in the face; physical fights never turned out well for him. Draco flicked a discreet glare one of his peers' way instead, and he relished in how quickly they looked away.

Inducing fear into people who could easily disarm him was perhaps the only advantage of having the Dark Mark on his left arm.

Shaking his head at the familiar feeling of loneliness, Draco took several breaths and opened the entrance of the Slytherin Common Room. He checked the hallways once, twice over before stepping out. He closed the door behind him, looking at the Ghostly Baron closely to see if the ghost had accidentally been hiding a pouch of unicorn excrement and sighing a breath of relief when he realized there was no such thing present.

He then pulled out the parchment and quill he'd snatched from his own desk, and he hoped people would ignore him if they thought he was too busy doing homework. His method worked for approximately two minutes. Perhaps the unidentifiable perpetrator thought Potter— do-gooder, back-to-his-Sixth-Year-stalking-ways Prat Who Lived— would back them up.

He shot two wary glances around the horribly filled hallway as he picked himself up, brushing his shoulder off.

As expected, every person he tried to lock eyes with looked away. Draco resisted the urge to punch every one of them.

Not that he would though.

He knew he'd be dragged off to Azkaban again if he even raised his voice towards another person. With Kingsley as the upcoming Minister, it wouldn't be a surprise if he threw Draco behind bars even without a reason just for the sake of it.

 _'In fact, it'd be in his favor to do so,'_ Draco thought bitterly. _'He'd earn the majority of votes in two minutes flat.'_

At that exact moment, Draco could list all the people who would actually _pay_ to see him be rid of. It'd take about an entire day to say each and every one of their names, but if Draco was asked to do such a thing, he would be able to. It was only natural to know the names of everyone who hated him.

Draco bit his lip and forced himself not to disgrace himself in public.

His hands clenched and unclenched around empty air, the usually comforting feel of his wand missing. Draco grit his teeth, forced himself to breathe, and stalked towards the library to actually start on his Muggle Theatre assignment. Hoping to find a lonely, secluded spot, Draco nearly fell to his arse with how harshly he'd suddenly been pushed backwards.

Draco winced as his knees knocked, but he waved his assaulter off when he tried to offer help.

Wait.

Help him?

"Sorry," Potter's voice said.

Draco's head snapped up, his eyes raking Potter once and twice before he forced himself to stop. He grit his teeth and braced for a hex coming his way— if it wasn't by Potter, Draco expected Granger or Weasley or one of his other Gryffindor followers to do so. If they didn't step up— Draco glanced around the hallway to see people staring at them— he knew one of Potter's stupid lackeys would be happy enough to do it for him.

Draco tried to step past, but Potter's head suddenly jerked up.

They locked eyes.

Potter jerked back as though he'd been stung by a million mosquitoes. His eyes darkened. He looked like he was two seconds away from throttling Draco with his bare hands.

And Draco knew he'd pay the price when his breath hitched, and he all but ran away from Potter. 

Fuck, he knew he looked terrified of the bloody bloke. Not that he was of course. There was no reason for him to be terrified of Harry bloody Potter— other than the fact he was considered to be the strongest wizard in the world after the Dark Lord was killed— and running away practically threw his already dirty reputation and stomped on it with his bottom heel.

But he didn't care. He _couldn't_ care.

After all, for nothing more than a split second, he could have sworn he saw the war playing out in front of him when he stared back into Potter's stupid eyes. He could have sworn he saw Luna Lovegood in the cold, dungeon-like cellar of the Malfoy manor, her body worryingly pale and shivering like she was living through the Ice Age. He saw her pale, transparent eyes staring at him with nothing but kindness and forgiveness. He saw the chains around her wrists and ankles, and he could have sworn he heard Lovegood's slow breathing and even slower beating of her heart. He heard the distant rattling of chains, and the non-discrete screams of both pain and mortification haunted him in the back. Draco could've sworn he was back at the manor; he could have sworn he was still _there_ in the middle of the war, terrified for not only his life, but for his looney classmate's.

But none of that couldn't have been possible, could it?

The Dark Lord— Voldemort, Draco harshly reminded himself— was dead. Potter killed him. He could never come back, and what Draco saw could never be seen again. What Draco heard could not be heard again. What Draco experienced could never be experienced again.

 _'The war is over,'_ Draco chanted silently, _'Potter ended it. The war is over.'_

He rested his forehead against the crumbling stone wall. He breathed in deeply and counted to ten. When he heard footsteps— it was definitely more than two people heading his way so no way it was Potter coming to hex him— Draco forced himself to stand up straight.

Walking again, Draco ignored the whispers the trio carried with them as they passed by him. They were probably talking about him and mocking how horribly the Malfoy name had fallen anyways.

He fisted the parchment paper, realizing a moment too late he had no other parchment to work with. He aimed a quick _Reparo_ towards his piece of crumpled parchment paper, smiling brokenly when the creases and folds disappeared until the parchment looked like it never had been crumpled at all.

The sounds of another pair of footsteps urged him to take two breaths and find the most concealed table in the library.

It was easier said than done, however, and Draco ended up taking the table farthest away from where his peers were clustered. He set the parchment paper down on the table, staring at it for far too much time with a blank mind, and then quietly conjured an inkwell. When Draco put the pointed edge against the paper, he suddenly realized what he should do.

He went to work immediately and did not look up until Blaise tapped on the table and slid into the seat across from him. 

"Any luck?"

Draco glanced the slightest bit upwards, dabbing his quill into the inkwell and shaking his head. Blaise frowned and snatched Draco's parchment paper, his lips curling up into a small smirk at the content. Draco let out a small huff and tried to snatch it back.

"While this is very lovely," Blaise commented in a way that made Draco think he was being sincere. Of course, Draco knew otherwise and his shoulders were shaking as fear gripped his throat. "I thought you went here to complete Hayes' homework. You know, the very one you begged and stole ideas from me for?"

Draco barely managed a smirk. "What can I say? I don't do anything uninteresting to me."

"I can tell," Blaise replied, stealing another glance at Draco's art before giving it back to him. "I only wish you put that much detail into your assignment so I can harass you for answers."

Draco's shoulders tensed as his fingers gingerly slid it closer to him.

"Solid plan. Too bad this was more important," he drawled in a near whisper.

He tilted his head down to look at the now illustrated parchment, wondering why the hell he didn't just save the artistic inspiration for later. Preferably in his bedroom.

Because now, instead of being done with most of his homework, Draco had a sketched pair of eyes that gazed into the very depth of his soul, making him feel naked even though the pairs of eyes were stuck on paper and couldn't jump out.

If Draco was being more honest, he'd admit that he'd sketched Potter's eyes. After bumping into him, Draco had allowed himself to obsess with how meeting Potter's eyes somehow made him relive a war he was more than desperate to forget. He'd picked up his quill and stupidly drew an incredibly accurate description of Potter's eyes.

He'd detailed it so both pupils and the specks of Potter's eyes were emphasized quite nicely in a way that didn't hide the hidden reflection in his eyes. The hidden reflection went into detail about Lovegood's imprisonment at the Malfoy manor.

Potter's left eye showed her in rustic chains, her body especially pale and barely clothed. The shirt she wore was torn, and it barely covered her upper thigh. She was resting the back of her head against the cold-looking walls of the manor's dungeon, her eyes looking as though she knew too much for a seventeen year old girl. At the same time, she was smiling reassuringly at Draco. She was smiling as if to say, "Thank you for taking care of me."

The drawing of Potter's right eye showed her smiling innocently with those signature goofy glasses of hers. Her hair was messy as it usually was in her younger years, and she was ornamented with small, flying pixies. Draco had imagined that's what nargles looked like; Lovegood always had something to say about those creatures whenever Draco joined her in the dungeons.

The contrast of the two images in Potter's hand-drawn eyes served to make Potter appear pained, however. Draco found that to be the most saddening the whole ordeal.

After two hours, all he'd accomplished was high-lighting his own trauma and the pain in Potter's eyes whenever he stepped into the hallways previously adorned with char marks. His art made Potter look as though he was carrying the weight of everything the images held— as though Potter was seeing everything Draco had seen when they locked eyes— and Draco almost scoffed at the very thought of Potter holding this back-breaking weight upon his brittle shoulders.

Still.

Draco knew it wasn't normal to draw your rival's (could he even consider them rivals anymore? Draco was technically dirt now) eyes.

So if Blaise figured out who he'd been drawing... if _Potter_ figured out what he'd been drawing...

Draco spared another glance at his drawing, biting down on his lip and fidgeting with his hands nervously.

He hoped Blaise wouldn't realize Draco had drawn his guilt and regret in Potter's eyes; Merlin, Draco should probably be hoping Blaise didn't recognize Potter's eyes in the first place and wonder how the hell Draco managed to remember them in such incredible detail.

"Mmm, perhaps not anymore." Blaise smirked and leaned back into his chair. It probably physically pained him to not put his feet up on the table. He snatched up the parchment of Potter's stupid, war-reminding eyes again and handed Draco a clean sheet of paper. "You're stuck with my harassment now."

Draco held out his hand. "Give it back, Blaise."

"No, I think I'll sell it," Blaise replied with a wink. But then he handed it back to him. "With all honesty, Draco, the detail is incredible. Did you just do this?"

"Yes. I was... you can say I was inspired." He couldn't point-blank say 'traumatized' after all. Draco shook his head at the very thought of such an action, picking up his quill again. "Have you finished your Potions essay yet? Did you finish taking the notes for page 214 in 'Hogwarts: A History II'? How about the Arithmancy assignment? And did you get started on the DADA and Transfiguration projects yet?"

"Ugh. Never mind." Blaise face-planted into the table. "You nerd."

"Being a nerd just means I'm smart," Draco replied easily. Then he cleared his throat and snatched an abandoned textbook, which just so happened to be a few inches away from him. He read the cover and sighed. "I suppose I'll get started with Potions."

Blaise winked. "And I shall begin practicing for my death."

Draco laughed softly under his breath, his nimble fingers quickly finding the page he remembered Professor Slughorn telling them to use. He dipped his quill in ink again, conjured a clean parchment paper, and began jotting down ideas for his essay on the wound-cleaning potion. He was just about done with writing his conclusion when the hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

He snapped his head up to find the perpetrator, only to scan the library and see a swarm of students too busy with their own studies to give a damn about him.

Only relieved by the tiniest of fractions, Draco lowered his head and decidedly began working on the very-much-dreaded Muggle Theatre assignment.

 _'My name is Draco Malfoy and I am currently eighteen years old,'_ it began. Draco was pleased to note the word 'currently' made his sentence a bit longer and quickly jotted down some more words. _'I am a Death Eater—'_ Draco hoped the smudged writing didn't tell Professor Hayes just how horrified he truly was with himself— _'and I am the sole heir of the Malfoy, Black, and Lestrange lineages.'_

Feeling the same prickly feeling at the back of his neck again, Draco's head abruptly snapped upwards. He then proceeded to lock eyes with Saint Potter for the second time that day. Draco quietly wondered if he was cursed as he challenged Potter to look away first. But Potter returned the stare with twice the original intensity, and Draco was slowly beginning to spiral into the memories soaked in guilt.

Well, one memory in particular.

It was of Vincent's death.

Draco shuddered at the very thought of the two-worded phrase. Vincent... his stupid usage of Fiendfyre... Goyle's urging them to climb higher, Vincent—

And it was like Draco was living through the moment again.

A few feet away from him, there was Vincent climbing the small mountain of useless artifacts. His face looked desperate, and his wand fell into the pool of hell fire. Vincent only had a split moment to look torn, it seemed, because when Draco glanced back to check on him, Vincent had flew backwards. His eyes were wide with fear— Vincent was always afraid of fire and Draco hated how he conjured the flames in the first place— and his mouth opened to scream for help. But Draco was too far away.

"Vince!" he screamed.

There was no response. For Vincent did not even get a chance to digest the sound of his own name before his body was burned alive by the dreaded flames.

Draco snapped back to reality, looking away from Potter in fear he'd see yet another event he was guilty for causing.

His hair was thankfully longer than it used to be, and it successfully hided Draco's view of the stupid prat when he turned a certain degree. However, with every blink, Draco could still see the little details of Vincent's death.

Fuck.

Draco was panicking again and it was all Potter's fault.

His right hand clenched around air, his lungs seizing up as he silently called for help. He was pretty sure his left hand exerted almost enough force to snap the quill he was holding.

He couldn't believe it.

It's twice now that Draco let himself get carried away.

The rule Draco had sworn to follow was getting trampled, and it was all because of the stupid muggle theatre assignment. If it wasn't for the stupid class, Draco wouldn't have been busy thinking as he walked to the library and bumped into Potter. If it wasn't for the stupid class, Draco wouldn't be willing to risk Blaise's wrath to bolt the hell out of the library.

Kicking his shin meanly, Draco mustered a very low apology as Blaise groaned in pain and glared at him.

He silently prayed to be spared.

"What? It's not been thirty minutes, love."

Draco shut his eyes and tried to ignore the guilt and remorse welling up in his gut. He could barely manage it on a daily basis, and he'd rather not have Potter's stupid eyes ripping them out his mouth. "You're right. It's been two hours."

Blaise stared at him. Then he shot out of his chair. "Let's go back to your room. I want to sleep."

A breath of relief escaped him before Draco could realize just how horribly people could misunderstand Blaise's words. Even after he did, Draco found it exceptionally difficult to care.

"I suppose I can do the assignment tomorrow."

"Again, it's due on Friday," Blaise huffed.

Draco practically sprinted away, bolting as far away from Potter as possible.

Merlin, what he wouldn't give to be all the way in France right now. Pansy always had a talent for brewing the most magnificent hot chocolate and cuddling up to Draco's side. Not to mention how she would finally give back Draco's real Cepheus the Hungarian Horntail plush. What Draco wouldn't do to have the plush or his best friend with him at that very moment...

But of course, he couldn't do anything for either of those things.

Draco was technically on 'house arrest' at Hogwarts, and stepping a single toe out of line would mean being slammed back into Azkaban until even more of his precious happy memories are taken away. Potter's testimony barely moved Wizengamot's decision, to be honest, and Draco wished Potter had tried to do something about the five-year traveling ban instead.

Not that he would have deserved it though.

"Draco!" Blaise called out, his feet shuffling quickly to catch up with Draco's stride.

Draco ignored him and continued to think about Potter.

If it wasn't for his stupid staring back at the library, Draco would have at least three inches of the stupid Muggle Theatre assignment done by now. Granted, he didn't even want to do it, but it wasn't like he should go down on his knees and thank Potter for saving him from this horrid fate and end up supporting his stupid savior complex. And not to mention how Draco was rather pissed he let himself get bothered with Potter in the first place.

The arrogant toe-rag had been alright with Draco ignoring his very existence up until two weeks ago. Then he'd ruined Draco's will to blend into the background of his stupid protagonist life, annoyed him to absolutely no end, and was practically beginning for Draco to hex him back into his place. Almost everywhere he went, Potter stuck out like a sore thumb and demanded attention. Before the war, Draco would have gladly stood up and given the stupid prat it just so Potter would leave him alone. But Draco couldn't bloody do that after everything he did.

His reputation was already shite as it was, and poking fun at the bloody _savior_ of the Wizarding World now would practically be the biggest 'fuck you' to every person out to have his head. It'd be like he was begging for them to kill him.

 _'Yeah, no thanks, Scarhead,'_ Draco seethed without any noise. He hoped Potter ate shit for dinner.

"— Draco," Blaise panted, sounding as though he'd been trying to match Draco's terrified-then-frustrated pace for fifteen minutes. And, judging by how Draco snapped out of his daze to find himself in the Slytherin Common Room, it must have been. "What happened?"

"Potter," Draco grit out. He had no idea why the hell he sounded angry, but anger was always a better solution to vulnerability than defeat and fear apparently.

Blaise was luckily unaware of Draco's ten-second confusion. He nodded slowly, understanding the name alone deserved its own warning. Just like how Umbridge's name was one. "He was bothering you again? In the library?"

Draco nodded furiously. "Some people would rather not go back to Azkaban, you know. Potter should mind his business."

Blaise's eyes darkened at the mention of the prison, a nasty scowl ruining his suave facial features. "What did he do?"

"He—" Draco quickly cut himself off. Telling Blaise about how Potter's eyes could be a weakness he gave up. It was not a good idea. Who knew when Draco might piss him off and when Blaise realized being friends with Draco was not the best decision he made? No. No, this was a dilemma Draco had to solve on his own.

"Draco?"

"He was being an arse!" Draco nearly yelled.

Blaise winced and put up both of his hands defensively. Several Slytherins fell out of their chairs and even more glared at him in a warning to shut the hell up. Draco ignored them.

"I mean, who the hell does he even think he is? I've had about enough of seeing him," he fumed. "He's staring at me every day and now he follows me around? All the way to the library? The one place I thought he was too stupid to go to?"

"Draco, everyone can hear you," Blaise hushed. He ducked his head in apology to those around them.

"Let them hear me," Draco snapped loudly. "If he even looks at my general direction one more time, I'm going to give him the hexing of his life. Fuck Azkaban!"

"Draco," Blaise warned lowly. "You don't even have your wand."

"He's always been the bane of my existence," Draco growled, ignoring Blaise's words. "I hope he eats shit and doesn't leave the Hospital Wing for a week!"

Blaise pursed his lips, promptly taking Draco by the arm and dragging him down to his room while Draco continued to scream out threats he wished Potter could hear. Draco tried not to wonder why he felt more numb and resigned instead of angry.


	2. Skipping Meals And Granger's Request

Once calming down, Draco decided to not eat dinner in the Great Hall. If there was any place Potter could not enter, it would be the Slytherin Common Room. Not only because they'd tightened security after a pair of buffoons sneaked into the Commons in Second Year, but because the place would be swarmed with 'traitorous snakes,' as one of Potter's stupid lackeys once had the audacity to say to a First Year's face.

Potter couldn't bother him so Draco snuggled into Cepheus, his Hungarian Horntail plush, and pretended he was dead-asleep when Blaise stomped inside to drag him off to dinner. The tactic luckily worked in his favor. Blaise even closed the door as he left the room.

The minute Draco could no longer hear his footsteps, Draco jumped out of bed and sat down at his desk. He forced himself to finish his homework, keeping his mind the farthest away from Potter as much as possible. Of course, thoughts of Vincent's death kept returning to him though. They bothered him until Draco set his Herbology homework aside and began drawing the scene the same way he drew Lovegood's.

 _'This is all Potter's fault,'_ he seethed as he stabbed his quill into the inkwell.

Vincent smiled soothingly at him, holding out a comforting cup of hot chocolate to his face. Draco found himself relaxing even though he knew he should be pissed at Potter for indirectly causing Vincent's death. He wondered why Potter didn't save Vincent when he and that stupid broom was clearly fast enough to do so. If he had, maybe Vincent wouldn't have died.

"Who am I kidding?" Draco sighed. He ran his fingers through his hair.

He could blame and wish Potter did something else all he wanted, but it still wouldn't change the fact that Potter wasn't the one at fault. Potter had just been there nearing the end of his life. Potter didn't know Vincent like he did; he didn't know what Vincent was truly like.

Draco did.

Draco knew the boy who loved chocolate enough to beg Draco to carry some in his pocket every day. He knew the boy who couldn't focus on anything for more than ten minutes. He knew the boy who had nightmares of the Crabbe manor, of his mother being killed by his father. He knew the boy who had fears, who wouldn't have ever had casted something like Fiendfyre if he knew it'd mean harm to anyone. He knew the boy who was just trying to live through the war all purebloods had to learn to survive in.

Draco knew all this, and yet, he did not do anything when Vincent wanted to cast Fiendfyre.

He'd been too late to see the signs and, no matter what Draco had been through at the time, it was no excuse.

Draco had been ignorant of Vincent's changing feelings and behaviors.

He'd known there was something wrong with Vincent when he greeted him in front of Hogwarts. He'd known there was something wrong when Vincent stared at him directly in the eye with a strange glint there. And yet—

And yet, Draco ignored it all.

He ignored Vincent's strange behavior and obsessed frantically over the one item that could guarantee his family's life. And that irresponsibility indirectly led to Vincent's death. It was Draco's fault, and that's why he felt so guilty about it.

"Maybe I should have died with him," Draco found himself wondering out loud. He looked back down to his parchment paper, pursing his lips and slowly outlining Vincent's fall in the other eye.

Then, as if on cue, Blaise threw open the door.

"Draco!" he boomed. He set an entire picnic basket's worth of food on top of Draco's parchment. "I brought some food."

Draco barely managed to keep his cool by leaving his quill into the inkwell. "Do you mean you brought 'a banquet'? As much as I appreciate this, I do not eat like a Hippogriff."

"And you know all about Hippogriffs," Blaise drawled. He threw himself onto Draco's bed, propping himself up on his elbows and smirking. "Join me?"

Draco snorted. "Go away. I'm not sleeping with you. You snore."

"Not everyone can be a tightlipped angel when passed out," he responded. He sent a pointed look towards the pouch of everlasting food. "Make sure you eat. I don't know why you thought pretending to be asleep would work on me, but I'm not stupid enough to think you're not hungry."

"I... I didn't think about food while you were gone," Draco confessed honestly. He cleared his throat. "I was too busy completing the homework you always keep me from doing."

Blaise snorted. "Yes, and the parchment paper you're drawing on is 'homework.'"

"It can be considered to be 'extra credit' for Muggle Theatre, Blaise. After all, muggles draw by hand, don't they?" Draco challenged.

"What does art have to do with theatre?"

"Theatre is a form of art. You should pay attention in class."

"I do more than you do," Blaise snickered. When Draco rolled his eyes and folded his arms, Blaise's eyes softened. "In all seriousness, Draco, you really should eat. Potter annoying you or not, you have to stop skipping meals."

Draco froze at the very mention of the prat's name, frowning as Blaise finished his sentence. "My skipping of meals has got nothing to do with Potter. It's..."

He honestly didn't know how to explain it. He's never been one for scarfing down entire banquets down his gullet and, after coming back in Fifth Year, he could barely touch a fork for a minute before setting it aside. Fruit had been the only thing he could eat and finish at the time, but Draco couldn't even take three bites of an apple before feeling sick to his stomach. Perhaps that was the reason why Draco was so adamant about skipping meals.

 _'Or perhaps you feel guilty,'_ a dark part of Draco's mind whispered. _'Perhaps you don't want to see how many students are missing from the tables. Perhaps you don't want to see students without their siblings and loved ones. Perhaps you don't want to see what's happening because of you.'_

Blaise raised an eyebrow. "Well?"

"I just can't eat with people looking at me, alright?" Draco snapped. He sighed, leant forwards, and snatched an apple. He took a bite even though he gagged when he touched it. "Sorry."

Blaise smiled coolly, sitting up and placing a gentle hand on Draco's knee. He looked almost kind, making Draco wonder why the hell he wasn't still dating the prat. "I'll leave you to it then. Good night, Draco."

He knew Blaise was leaving to write a letter to Pansy concerning his immature outburst. He knew he was going to ask her how to coax him out to the Great Hall, something she'd done almost every day during Fifth and Sixth Year. Draco also knew Blaise was going to worry her by telling her what Draco had said; Pansy would expose him by informing him that Draco had never been bothered by people watching him eat before. After all, Potter had watched him eat enough times to make him be comfortable with ignoring any stares. Therefore, he wouldn't be bothered by people staring at him while he ate.

But he couldn't just tell Blaise the truth, could he?

He couldn't tell Blaise eating was a privilege he felt like he could no longer afford. He couldn't tell Blaise even thinking about meeting Potter's gaze in the Great Hall— which they were rather infamous for doing apparently— brought painful, guilt-tripping memories to the surface.

Blaise would laugh his bloody head off.

He'd mock the Malfoy name for how meek and pathetic the Malfoy heir was to his face, and then he'd rip off the bandage by announcing Draco's weakness to the public.

The Malfoy name— not that Draco really cared— would be dragged through the dirt.

No, Blaise asking Pansy would have better results. If Pansy tells him the truth, Blaise was more than smart enough to assume that Draco didn't want to tell him the real reason. Besides, Blaise knew he couldn't just confront him. Draco was infamous for running away from his problems. Draco would lie over and over again until he was finally sick and tired of asking.

Mind made up, Draco replied with a soft "good night" like the good Malfoy heir he was, mouth opening and closing several times as he wondered what it'd be like to be able to talk to someone without worrying for his image.

Blaise smiled at him, mockingly saluting. "Eat something, alright?"

"I heard you the first time you said it," Draco huffed. He took another bite of his apple to how his comprehension.

Rolling his eyes, Blaise closed the door behind him.

Draco let out a relieved sigh when Blaise left, sitting back into his chair and throwing the apple and the contents in his mouth away. He pressed two of his fingers against his tongue, gagging until he felt his previous bite of an apple coming up his throat. He threw that away too, huffing as he weakly summoned a glass of water. Draco vanished the basket and turned back to the parchment he was working on.

He stared at parchment Vincent.

Parchment Vincent smiled at him.

"You stupid git," Draco muttered. He took a quill, transfigured it into a metal stand, and hooked the drawing to it. Then he grabbed his cloak, found another quill and parchment, and headed towards the library.

Serenity and peace hung in place of awkward silence as he strolled towards one of the more secluded tables of the library. They covered Draco like a protective, invisible blanket, allowing him to feel safe as he reached for a Transfiguration book. It helped that no one except the most diligent, more tolerant of his existence students of Hogwarts were there.

Draco slid into a chair, smiling softly as he opened the side window gazed out to watch the sunset. He closed his eyes when a cool gust of wind smacked his face and promised fresh air. Draco then flipped through the pages, his smile widening as he sensed the beautiful scent of technically-new books.

"This never gets old," he said to himself.

"What doesn't?" someone asked.

Draco did _not_ shriek.

He did not fall out of his chair either.

"Malfoy?"

"Merlin, Granger," Draco snapped. His cheeks were uncomfortably warm, but Draco refused to acknowledge what he'd just done. Standing, he cleared his throat. "What are you even doing here?"

That was, without a single doubt, the most stupid question Draco could have ever asked the witch.

Of course Granger would be in the library. This blasted old place would be her dorm room if Headmistress McGonagall allowed it. Like Draco, she loved the library and books and serene environment— which Granger had practically thrown out the window when she decided to scare the living daylights out of him.

Draco could only hope Granger was here to study peacefully. Preferably twenty meters away from him. After all, Granger had a mean slap— one that rivaled Pansy's— and Draco would rather jump to a different table than risk being slapped by the witch.

"Here to do homework of course," she quipped.

Draco followed the movement of her uncomfortably curious eyes, his fingers tightening their hold on the page he was turned to.

Granger sighed.

"Relax. I have my own copy." True to her word, she pulled out her own copy of the Transfiguration book. "Mind if I sit?"

"Here?" Draco asked, affronted by her casual display. He glanced around, watching for Potter or Weasley to pop up and mock him for being so pathetically lonely that even Granger, the witch who almost always has her head in a book, noticed and took pity on him. Draco grit his teeth.

"Well yes," Granger replied easily. "This table has the best lighting and it's close to the window."

"The wind makes the books smell richer," Draco blurted.

Granger blinked. "I didn't think you would be one to smell the books, Malfoy."

"I'm not."

She unexpectedly smiled at him and took a seat. She began flipping through the pages, as if expecting them to be reading companions without any punching or fighting or hexing.

"Why are you really here?" Draco asked.

"I just told you why."

"Yes, but your explanation sounds so pathetic, I think I can compare it to liking puppies because they're small. It's not an actual reason to like puppies," Draco said.

A beat. Then Granger laughed.

"You're right. It's not."

"Then?" he demanded.

Granger looked up thoughtfully. "I just wanted to." She then paused. "Actually, I think it's because you're not going to bother me like everyone else does. I doubt you're going to ask me to marry you."

Draco gagged. "I'd rather go back to Azkaban than do that, Granger."

"That place was horrible."

Draco agreed. "It wasn't much different than any of the Malfoy and Black estates. It was manageable."

"Just because it was doesn't mean you should have gone," Granger said kindly. "You know that, don't you? I mean, Harry even vouched for you."

Draco sighed and turned away. Even thinking about Potter gave him the chills.

"Is that why you're really here, Granger? To ask questions about a magical prison in which happiness is sucked out of you by a faceless, cloaked dark creature? To distract me from doing additional study for Transfiguration?"

"What? No," she insisted. Her eyes were sincere, but her not-so-secretive smile said otherwise. Draco stubbornly refused to give in. Granger sighed. "Alright, I'm sorry. I'll tell you why I'm really here."

Draco gestured to her mindlessly. "Thank you for finally cooperating."

Granger smiled at him again. "I'm here because I need someone to tutor me in Arithmancy."

"What? Get Goldstein for that," Draco huffed. "He got the best score on the quiz last week, remember?"

"Yes, but..." her voice trailed off. "To be honest, I don't trust him."

"And you trust me?" he asked, shocked and terrified of how much more bizarre this surprisingly civil conversation got.

Granger snorted. "No. Absolutely not. But Harry does. So..."

"What?" Draco squeaked. "Why would Potter, of all people—"

"Don't ask. I don't even know. I think he understands you, you know? Or at least what it's like to be where you are."

"Where I am?" he echoed.

Financially?

Draco snorted at the very thought of it.

Even after the Ministry had decidedly taken a few thousand galleons from the Malfoy vaults, the amount of money Draco was entitled to as the Malfoy heir was far higher than whatever Potter had in his vaults. One might even go as far as say Draco was fifty times richer than Potter, and it's not even considering all the vaults Draco could take dominion over.

The Malfoy line had been invested in politics and international affairs, bringing in hundreds of thousands of galleons every year since the beginning of Wizarding civilization. The Black line, as odd as it may sound, had been invested in inventions and medicine. Their inventions and medicine still rake in thousands of galleons into the main vault yearly, and that's only the main vault. Draco hadn't even considered the money from the personal vaults that were his by blood right. And don't even get him started on the Lestrange fortune. It was slightly less than the Black and the Malfoy fortune, but it had quite a lot of money.

However much Potter had, Draco still had multiple times as much over him. However much money Potter had been given for winning the war, it was not going to make up an eighth of the money Draco inherited.

He would bet his life on it.

Therefore, Granger couldn't have possibly been referring to Potter relating to his situation financially.

Then perhaps Granger meant family-wise, Draco concluded. But that soon didn't make any sense either.

For starters, while everyone in Potter's family was dead, some of Draco’s were very much alive. There was his aunt Andromeda and the son of his first cousin, Nymphadora, who had fought on Potter's side. Theodore Lupin was a cute little Metamorphosis, and Draco could gloat about his perfect, childish grin for hours after Theodore came to visit him while he was at Azkaban. Not even the fact that Potter was his godfather could have taken away Draco's pride and joy upon interacting with the little brat.

Draco supposed that meant Potter was connected to Theodore family-wise in the legal sense.

Either way, Draco's family was too different to Potter's family for him to sympathize or 'relate to.' For one, his family was rather well-known for their psychotic tendencies. Take his aunt Bellatrix for example. She was the craziest, mind-broken witch Draco was sure he'd ever encountered, and Draco had met a lot of crazy witches. He could also refer to his mental, blood-thirsty, and very much dead uncle Sirius. The psycho killed twelve muggles and betrayed Potter's blood mother and father for Merlin's sake.

Speaking of the late Potters, Draco was more than certain Senior Potter and Madam Potter would have been brilliant, totally not crazy people had they lived. Even dead, they sounded like much better people than Draco's family members.

A dark part of Draco's mind wondered if he'd think of his most craziest family members the same way had they died for him too.

Either way, Granger definitely wasn't talking about Potter relating to Draco family-wise.

So...

Draco squinted at nothing in particular.

Physically? Potter could understand him physically?

Although that sounded wrong, Draco had to admit they were both rather fit. Potter mainly because he still had the privilege of training with the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and Draco because he had to actually haul library books all the way to the Slytherin Commons after Potter decided to not take pity on him and give him his wand back.

So they were both fit.

But that didn't seem... right. Why would Potter say such a thing?

"I mean mentally, Malfoy," Granger cut off his thoughts by rudely saying. "Was it really so hard for you to figure out?"

Draco shrugged, biting his tongue to stop himself from being embarrassing. But if he was honest, he could feel a headache coming on.

 _'What in Merlin's name are you talking about?'_ Draco silently wondered. _'Mentally? How could Potter relate to me 'mentally'? He'd probably lose his goddamn mind without eating for as long as I had. He'd probably cry himself to bed every night with how much he felt like he couldn't trust anyone. He'd probably crack under physical, mental, and emotional abuse. He could never relate to me in that sense.'_

Draco took several deep breaths to calm himself down. "Potter's supposed trust and 'understanding' aside, you've stated you don't trust me. My concern is why, then, are you turning to me for help?"

"I already told you why."

With how cryptic Granger was being, Draco thought she would have made a fine Slytherin.

"Because I would never want to shag you?" he asked.

Granger rolled her eyes but didn't deny it. "And you are somehow at the top of the class despite not showing any interest in it. I can be your... study buddy!"

"Not to sound egoistic, but I don't need one," Draco replied. "As you said, I am at the top of class. Why would I study with someone else when I'm perfectly capable of studying by myself?"

Granger let out a frustrated noise. "I— well, you—"

Unused to seeing a witch in distress, Draco caved. "Alright, Granger. I'll help you study if you can get Potter to leave me alone. He's been tailing me since the start of term, and I can practically feel him breathing down my neck in Muggle Theatre."

"That's all you want?" she asked.

"Yes."

Granger looked up thoughtfully. "Alright. I'll try."

"Don't try, Granger. Either he stops or I don't help you at all," Draco said. At Granger's curious look, he pursed his lips. "It's awfully creepy, and I have other matters to concern myself with that has no connection to Potter whatsoever. If he has a problem, please tell him to grow some balls and hex me instead of staring."

"Understood," Granger replied. "I'll make sure he knows that you want him to stop too."

 _'Too?'_ Draco curiously wondered.

He decided to let his vague question go, however, in favor of doing his Transfiguration homework.

He didn't need to know about how there were others concerned with Potter's creepy staring. He wasn't curious to know why other people made an issue of Potter's favorite pastime. He wasn't interested in what others thought about Potter's eyes passionately staring at the back of Draco's head wherever he walked instead of them...

Merlin, damn it.

Draco was supposed to let this go.

"Who else wants him to stop?" he asked. Draco glanced up, catching the surprise on Granger's face before looking back down to his book. He swallowed thickly while pretending to be disinterested. "Doesn't this matter only concern Potter and me? Who else is being bothered by his weird, stalker tendencies?"

Granger sent him a look he knew all too well of.

"Fine!" he huffed. He harshly shut the book and ran his fingers through his hair. He sneered. "Don't tell me then. I suppose I don't need to tell you the real reason why I don't want to concern myself with the Prat Who Lived."

Glancing up, Draco was very pleased to see the curious eyes Granger directed towards him. He barely managed to conceal a smirk when Granger's mouth began opening and closing, yet no voice came out. He could tell she was struggling between loyalty and curiosity.

He was displeased when the former won.

"Don't call him that," Granger said, flipping the page almost nonchalantly.

Had Draco not been well accustomed to the very much Slytherin way of changing the subject, he would've believed her.

"Why not?" he wondered.

If he remembered correctly, he and Potter had always exchanged mocking, jeering nicknames in each other's directions. Granger and Weasley almost always stepped in (like bloody parents do when their kid is about to get into a fight) and told Draco to shove off, but never before had Granger told him to stop in such a... soft and mundane way.

"Because it's rude, and it hurts Harry's feelings."

Draco arched an eyebrow.

How did she know whether or not Potter's feelings were hurt? For as far as Draco could tell, Potter have had a hard time feeling anything these past few years. His shoulders sag all the time, and his hair is even more like a dirty mop than per usual. His robes are always ruffled, like he can't help but fiddle with it now that he has no purpose in his life anymore. And his face— Draco noticed this in the very rare instances he allowed himself to glance Potter's way— was utterly drained of the caramel complexion he'd had before everything happened. He looked so pale, he reminded Draco a little bit about himself.

So... Draco was more than sure that none of his words can hurt Boy Wonder now. None of his words had hurt Potter for a long time.

And yet.

"Yet it's fine for him and Weasley to call me 'Ferret'?" he asked instead.

Granger winced.

"No. But, well... that's different."

"How?" Draco asked, intrigued. He sincerely wanted to know her reasoning. He sure as hell knew his own. "Granger, aren't you well rehearsed in the art of Transfiguration? Why do you think it's incredibly frowned upon to transfigure a wizard? What do you think happens to the bones, organs, and brain of the wizard when he is forcibly transformed into a different thing with entirely different components?"

Granger winced as though she'd been impaled by a long sword— the Sword of Gryffindor perhaps— and the sword had been twisted to be dangerously close to piercing her heart.

Still, Draco continued with his list of questions.

"My mocks are just weightless names, Granger. Potter's and Weasley's are a stab against the mental, physical, and emotional health of a wizard. Is that what you mean by different? Is that why I shouldn't return the favor?" he demanded.

Draco took a deep breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he saw the slightly shocked look on Granger's face and grit his teeth.

"Just something to think about, Granger," he said quietly. For some reason, he felt like his little emotional outburst was going to be the hot topic tomorrow morning. Not that he would be there to witness it. Draco was be a shut-in at the Slytherin Commons. "I'll be leaving first. Get Potter to stop staring at me and I'll tutor you. One hour only."

"I'll try to get them both to stop," Granger uselessly promised. "Making fun of you for that incident, I mean. And Harry bothering you too."

Draco stared at her. Then he scoffed, turned on his heels, and left.

_'Good luck, Granger.'_


	3. Potter, The Arrogant Toerag

A week passed, and Granger did not keep her promise. Well, 'promise' per say, but what she had willingly agreed to do in return for a study session with Draco. And she— honest to Merlin— tried. But Potter, also known as the Prat Who Lived, absolutely refused to listen. Not a surprise there.

Before the war, Draco might have been delighted whenever Potter ignored something Granger said and lost Gryffindor house points almost regularly. It'd been a meaningless pastime for him in the past. Noting whatever Granger said and thinking of all the different ways Potter would fuck up after not listening.

But now?

When Draco would rather like to keep the farthest distance away from Potter as possible?

Now, Potter was a termite and Draco wanted to set fire to whatever stupid tree Potter was living on.

Stupid Potter stared at Draco as he'd always been so keen to do— only with much more... intensity and hatred. Draco wished Granger had more of an influence— or at least had the ability to snap Potter out of whatever he thought he was doing— on Potter. He wished Granger was capable of doing more.

After Granger ambushed and terrified him out of his chair that night, Draco went to the library twice more and then realized it'd be much better for him to just stay in his room instead.

Potter, much to his horror and disbelief, actually went to the library now.

And both times he'd been there, staring at Draco two tables away while Granger kicked his foot under the table to get him focused on whatever subject they were working on. Draco did not particularly fancy thinking about why Potter's eyes brought war flashbacks to his mind, nor did Draco fancy doing so while Potter emitted very... stalker-like tendencies across two of the library's most secluded, peaceful tables.

So.

Blaise and Gregory can go to the library to study. Draco shall do the same with Cepheus the Hungarian Horntail.

"You've got to stop sending me to retrieve your books for you," Blaise sighed after about two days of his sudden shutting in.

He'd obviously been particularly pissed because Draco had asked him to go to the library on a Monday, and _everyone_ knew one simply does not go to the library on Mondays. Only people with nothing better to do and Granger dared to do such a thing.

"What's wrong with you now?" Blaise whined.

Draco's fingers tightened their hold on the book he was receiving. "Nothing."

"What happened to the basket?"

"Put it aside," Draco replied. "Did they have the copy?"

"Yes." He looked as though he was rather tempted to throw the book away.

"Thank you," Draco said.

Blaise grinned. "Never thought you'd say that, did you?"

"Shut up."

Blaise's grin widened impossibly before the bloke happily strolled out.

Draco reveled in the silence and the loneliness Blaise's exit brought with it. He thumbed the cover of the book he brought, smiling softly as he reread the title over and over again.

"'The Knight and the Dragon'," he read aloud. He closed his eyes and let himself get swept away in the memories.

The first time he heard the tale, Draco had been six. He sat at the edge of his bed, kicking his feet childishly as his mother stepped in with a tray of tea and biscuits. She warded the room, sat down at the edge as well, and handed Draco a chocolate-covered biscuit— his favorite kind. Then she pulled the book from her behind her back and began telling him about a prophecy only the Blacks had possession of. One that told the story of a righteous man and a misunderstood man. One that told the story of incredible wizard duos like Merlin and Prince Arthur (granted, the latter was not a wizard, but he was still a great individual), Mordred and Morgana, and even Dumbledore and Grindelwald.

It was a prophecy of all prophecies; it told every great wizard and their counterpart's stories before they could unfold.

And Draco, ever the influenced child he could be, starved and begged for more knowledge.

"This prophecy," Mother had told him then, "was written long before Merlin's time. It was written in the stars, then it was etched in caves before it finally got translated to be printed in books."

Then she read the story, and Draco wondered if he'd one day be either the 'Dragon' or the 'Knight' of the Wizarding World.

He hoped he'd be the 'Knight'. It meant he died first.

It's a shame that he didn't.

Without another word, Draco flipped to the first page and mouthed along to the familiar words, not minding that he mouthed the words before his eyes laid eyes on the text. However, before he could really get into the many different versions of the prophecy, Draco's mind unwillingly wandered to Potter.

He growled and shut the book harshly.

Draco, although he'd rather hang by his tie than admit this outloud, knew Granger was a witch of her word. If she said she would try to get Potter to stop bothering him, then she tried. Especially when it was her education-slash-grade on the line. Granger was a nerd, just like him. And as a fellow nerd, Draco could personally relate to the desperation she felt to ask him (of all people) to tutor her.

This meant that the problem was, as always, Potter.

Stupid Potter and his lightning scar and his broom and his war-flashback-triggering emerald eyes.

Draco hoped his eyes bugged out of his head like a beetle. Or worse: expelled for horrible grades. He wagered on the latter of course.

Potter was absolute shit at any form of schooling. He fidgeted all the time, barely paying attention unless the topic the class was discussing was something that caught his interest beforehand. He fell asleep in History of Magic as though Professor Binns wasn't the most brilliant professors he ever met, and he boasted off his wandless, wordless magic like it wasn't even a big deal.

Which it was.

For Draco at least.

He never bothered to learn how to do magic without a wand and, as consequence, he was struggling quite a lot in classes and to do mundane tasks. He had to push his magic to the very limits within the time span of two weeks to do a decent job on NEWT level potion, and he had to do another week of intense training just to be capable of pushing a book off the top shelf in the library. It'd taken him a month and a half to finally gain mastery of the spells that should have come easily to him in the rest of his classes.

But even then, it took him a lot of effort to do magic wandlessly.

For Potter to do so very easily... the very feeling of Potter's magic casually reaching out and brushing against Draco's core pissed him off.

But Draco had done a wonderful job of not jumping Potter. He slid into the background, taking deep breaths and inching closer to Blaise— who still had his wand of course— in order to avoid making a fool of himself. He kept his head down wherever he walked, rejected any offer for Quidditch, and spent most of his time in either the library or the dorms. And Potter, ever the masochistic, arrogant toerag he was, began stalking him as though it was Sixth Year all over again.

If Granger couldn't get him to leave Draco alone, then nobody can.

Draco sighed, all the anger and frustration leaving him.

He sat back down at his desk, wrote out a quick letter, and sent it off to Granger.

Not even ten minutes later, he received an apology and a gratitude letter in reply.

Draco simply sighed and got ready for bed, not even bothering to close his eyes as his surroundings began quieting.

As it usually did, morning came too quickly for Draco's liking. He took a bite of the apple Blaise threw him, barely stomaching it before he threw it away, as he walked with him to the Seventh Floor of this stupid castle. Blaise swung the door open, holding it that way so Draco's guitar wouldn't be crushed once he stepped in.

As per usual, Draco found the most secluded spot of the room and plopped down against the wall. Blaise settled down beside him on the floor, giving Draco a single moment to glance at Granger. She smiled and threw a thumbs up. Draco replied with the slight tilt of his head, thrown off when her smile widened. Then, as Blaise searched his bag for absolutely no reason whatsoever, Draco took a moment to look at Potter.

He was surprised that Potter's eyes were firmly trained on the desk he was sitting at.

For some reason, Draco predicted that Potter would wandlessly explode the wooden thing.

"Good morning, class!" Professor Hayes declared as she kicked open the door. Professor Hayes tossed a whole pile of scrolls onto the desk, happily walking around the classroom and asking about everyone's day. She then sat behind her desk and declared today's class was just another free period, and she recommended them to do homework or study for their next classes.

She did all this while Draco wondered if she drank three cups of coffee before storming in.

"Are you going to procrastinate by drawing again?" Blaise asked, snapping him out of his thoughts.

"Maybe," Draco replied. He looked over Blaise's shoulder, surprised to see his friend tugging an Arithmancy book out of his bag. "I didn't think you were taking Arithmancy this year."

"I'm not. Pansy said I should try to do something the way you do so... I chose to become a nerd."

It took Draco's entire willpower to not beat Blaise with the book. "Funny. I think I should do the same thing, but with me trying to be like you. In other words, I choose to become a blubbering, buffoon-like bastard."

Blaise smiled and then handed Draco a sheet of paper.

"What is this?" Draco asked.

Merlin, if it's another 'you should be rotting in Azkaban, Malfoy' letter, Draco was literally going to _incendio_ the bloody thing.

"Something Potter picked up for you," Blaise teased.

"Give me your wand," Draco demanded. Before Blaise could even do so, Draco reached into his robes' right pocket and snatched it. He raised Blaise's wand to the parchment paper, his mouth opening to burn it when his bastard of a friend grabbed his forearm and stopped him. "What?"

"It's yours," he said. "You left it at the library a few days ago. Potter saw it and thought it was yours so he told me to give it to you."

Draco blinked. "Have you gone mad? I didn't leave anything at the..."

_'Fuck. His sketches of Lovegood.'_

Hands shaking, Draco opened the parchment paper. He laughed at the words cruelly written.

"'Git,'" Draco snickered, even though he really shouldn't be relieved to read the one-worded note. He glanced at Blaise, who was now glaring into the back of Potter's head. "I never leave anything at the library, you absolute idiot. What were you expecting?"

"Something more civilized," he huffed in response. "I ought to hex him."

Draco grinned. "Don't. Granger will do plenty on her own."

It took too long for Draco to realize what he'd said wrong.

"You're friends with Granger now?" Blaise asked, surprised. "When did this happen?"

"When it happened is none of your business," he replied. "But, I can tell you one thing: she made a deal, and when she fulfills her side of it, I'll have nothing but peace."

Again, it took Draco too much time to realize what he'd said wrong.

"She's killing you?" Blaise growled. He snatched his wand from Draco's hand, looking like he was about to kill Granger. Although Draco appreciated his false protectiveness, it was unnecessary.

"She's not," Draco quickly reassured. "Do you think I'd accept the deal if she'd offered to do so?"

"Yes."

"How on earth did you reach the conclusion?" When he didn't hear a reply, Draco snapped, "For Merlin's sake, Blaise, I'm not suicidal," he snapped.

Blaise shrugged. "Alright then. If she didn't offer to kill you, then what did she offer? What did you accept to do in return?"

"You won't believe it."

"Try me."

So Draco, very hesitantly, told him about their exchange the week before. Blaise listened until the prospect of Potter leaving him alone was apparently so absurd that it was easier for him— the bastard— to laugh instead of listen. Draco frowned and folded his arms in front of him.

"It's not funny."

"But it is," Blaise said between bouts of laughter. "You and Granger? Study buddies? For _Arithmancy_? Forgive me if I'm not losing my bloody mind over it. Is she being mad? Did she lose a few screws? What was she thinking?"

Draco refused to tell Blaise his first guess was that Granger pitied him.

"Regardless of what she was thinking, she fulfilled her part of the bargain." Not completely, but Draco had felt the most free in these five minutes without Potter glaring at him from across the room. The action in and of itself was a bloody miracle. "Therefore, I have to do mine."

Blaise wiped a nonexistent tear away. "You're going to help her? Just like that?"

"Well, yes."

A snicker escaped Blaise's lips before the bastard could stop himself. "This is so ridiculous, Draco! You're not even being threatened to be hexed, and you're saying you're going to help Granger? Of all people?"

"Are you daft?" Draco snapped. "I already said 'yes'. With how you're acting, it's as though I've never helped you before?"

"Yes, but I'm your friend."

"I'm beginning to question that."

"Be serious, here, Draco."

"You're the one who laughed at the very prospect of Granger and I exchanging notes," he huffed.

Blaise shushed him. "It's simply ridiculous, I mean. You and Granger are too different. It's like pairing up an intelligent yet capable warrior with a very skinny, suicidal one." 

"I'm sincerely planning to commit homicide," Draco huffed. "It is ridiculous, and I'm still in shock. But we made a deal and—"

"A very stupid one, if I may add."

"— I plan to fulfill it. It's only for one hour anyways," he explained.

"Just watch as it becomes one hour every week," Blaise drawled. Then he frowned. "Would that mean you and Granger could be considered to be 'friends'?"

If Granger heard Blaise say that, she would go on a killing spree— killing Blaise and resurrecting him before killing him again to make fun of his stupidity.

"Absolutely not."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Blaise replied ominously, but then he sensed the conversation dying and let go of it completely. He settled back against the wall, glancing back at Draco for a split moment and scoffing. "You and Granger... I can't believe it."

Draco rolled his eyes. He then began fiddling with the hems of his robes, letting his mind wander and not paying attention to the time until Professor Hayes unexpectedly called his name.

"Speak with me after class."

Several heads turned his way.

He did his best to openly look like he was freaking out.

"Yes, Professor."

"You're in for it now. What do you reckon she wants?" Blaise whispered.

"I don't know," Draco hushed.

"You too, Potter. You and Malfoy will stay after class."

Draco's eyes found the back of Potter's head; Potter looked up and glanced his eyes towards him.

Blaise nudged his side.

"Have fun," he teased. "You won't be alone now."

"It's not funny, you bastard," Draco huffed.

Before Blaise could retort with anything, the class was dismissed.

"Don't forget that you need to think of some major events of your cultures so we can begin planning a class performance next Friday," Professor Hayes reminded.

Draco cursed under his breath. It was Potter's fault. Of course Potter bothered him so much, Draco couldn't remember something so major in the only class Draco passively disliked. At least he had a full week to think one up. He's never been so grateful that his Muggle Theatre class met only once a week.

"If," Professor Hayes continued, "at any moment, you have an idea before next class or you feel uncomfortable presenting your idea in front of the class, my door is always open to discuss it."

Then everyone but him and Potter vanished, making Draco silently wish he'd pitched himself out a window in the East Tower when he had the chance. Potter's eyes snapped to him again as Draco sauntered over to Professor Hayes' desk, the slight hint of hurt in his irises making Draco feel incredibly uncomfortable.

"Malfoy. Potter," Professor Hayes greeted.

"Professor," he said.

Potter muttered the same reply.

Draco wondered why Potter continued to bother him.

The prat already had his wand and he's already been the bane of his existence since first year. He'd already taken over Draco's mind for the past few years, and now... now Potter wants more? Did he want to take back his words of Draco's 'innocence' and throw Draco into Azkaban himself? Did he want to humiliate and step on him some more? Did he want him on his knees, crying and begging for mercy?

 _'He doesn't even have to look at me and he's still bothering me,'_ Draco thought meanly. He wanted to kick and scream; he wanted Potter to stop bothering him. He wanted to demand Potter to get out of his head.

"I assume you'd both like to learn why you have been called."

Draco kept his mouth shut, nodding.

"It's about the assignment you both turned in last Friday," Professor Hayes informed kindly.

Draco's eyes almost bugged out of their rightful sockets.

 _'My assignment?'_ he inwardly freaked. _'Oh god, I'm failing. One assignment in, and I'm failing this stupid course. Pansy was wrong when she said I'd be a great fit for a class for drama. I'm failing this class, which means I'm going to not graduate from Hogwarts. Not graduating means I'll have to live as a hermit. Merlin, Mother is going to be absolutely furious when I have to sell the Manor and adjust to a hermit's lifestyle... I hope Pansy will let me hide in her closet.'_

"Malfoy."

Draco jolted out of his daze. "Yes, Professor?"

She set down a piece of parchment paper. She unraveled the scroll, revealing that it was Draco's assignment. "I'd like you to read this section out loud for me."

He glanced towards Potter, who was clearly more interested in his feet than Draco's self-evaluation. Draco let out an inaudible sigh of relief. "Right here?"

"No, in the toilets," she deadpanned.

Draco rolled his eyes.

"Alright," Draco sighed. Then he focused his eyes and began reading. "'My name is Draco Lucius Malfoy and I am currently eighteen years old. I am a Death Eater and I am the sole heir of the Malfoy, Black, and Lestrange lineages—' Apologies professor, but this feels rather pointless."

He pointedly ignored the... heartbroken or maybe pained— no, _prat-like_ expression written all over Potter's face. It was definitely prat-like. What else could that look on his face be? It certainly wasn't pain.

Someone like Potter didn't feel pain— whether it be sympathy or empathy— for someone like Draco.

"Malfoy, just finish the section I've asked you to read," Professor Hayes said. "It's not like speaking is very difficult for you, and it won't take more than five minutes for us to discuss it."

"Fine." Draco scowled. "'I previously wanted to be a Cursebreaker since it is a job my father had deemed respectable for a Malfoy to have. Now, I would like to do individual study.'"

"Thank you," she said. She took in a deep breath, a face of pity greeting Draco when she opened her eyes. "Now, I understand your grades are important to you, Malfoy. However, I need to understand your reasoning for this assignment. Why was the first piece of information about your time under Voldemort? As far as I know, you were coerced."

Draco winced, still unused to hearing the name despite having repeated it in his head for the first three weeks of Azkaban. "It doesn't matter whether I was coerced or not. The fact is, I had been a part of what the Dark Lord— of what Vol— of what he'd done. It's a factual statement that I cannot deny so I wrote it."

Professor Hayes frowned. "Yes, and does this apply to your following statements? The fact that they are 'factual' pieces of information that you had acquired from... in delicate, inaccurate words, other people of higher authority?"

Draco cocked his head to the right. "Yes. Where are you going with this?"

"Malfoy, you do realize this is an assignment about yourself, correct? This assignment was supposed to allow me to understand who you are, or at least who you hope to become in the future. You weren't supposed to summarize what others have influenced you to think or do. After all, you hadn't truly believed that all muggleborns or muggles deserved to die simply because they didn't have magic, correct?"

Draco wanted to vomit at the very mention of death.

"Well, no, but... but I had," Draco argued. He almost immediately ducked his head apologetically for raising his voice. "I'd followed your instructions through and through, Professor. I wrote myself as I saw, influenced and all, and I did it accurately and truthfully."

"Not truthfully to yourself."

Draco stared at her dumbly.

"For example, what do you wish to do in the future?"

Draco grit his teeth. "I don't know. Nothing to be approved by my father anyways."

"What is your favorite subject at Hogwarts?"

"I don't know. Perhaps... Potions?"

"Why is it your favorite?"

Draco shrugged.

Professor Hayes sighed a sigh that Draco hated. "Then what do you know about yourself, Draco?"

What he knew about himself...

Without letting Draco speak, she turned towards Potter, who Draco wished he could have forgotten was there.

"This is a similar deal for you, Potter. I don't care whether you saved the world or not. Like Malfoy, you have no concept of self-knowledge. You had not written a single thing about your life before the war, nor had you written a single sentence about your ambitions in life."

"My greatest ambition is to be dead," Potter muttered darkly. Draco snorted. "Wouldn't that be a nice paper to read?"

"Absolutely not." Then she took a deep breath, seemingly praying to Merlin or a higher power for the patience to deal with them. "As you are the only two who were incapable of following directions as it was, you two will be something I enjoy calling 'emotional partners' as of now on. You will report to me regularly with new information about each other so get used to each other's company."

Draco grit his teeth, yet kept his mouth shut.

"Why?" Potter blurted, obviously having a real death wish.

"Because I said so," Professor Hayes huffed. "As this was the only assignment I was planning to assign this year, this 'emotional partnership' will determine whether or not you pass my class."

Draco paled.

"Wait, that's not right, is it?" Potter asked ineloquently.

"Nothing is ever right," Draco muttered.

"I hope you understand this is an elective class based on participation and not academics," Professor Hayes continued, ignoring Potter's question.

"That's not what an elective class is," Draco muttered. He took Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, and there was far much more academic work than... _participation_.

"You and Potter will meet me every Monday morning before classes," she continued. Draco wanted to tell her off and say that he was, in fact, not going to do what she said just to spite her. "You shall tell me one interesting fact you've learned from the other, and it has to be a piece of information your partner willingly informed you about themselves. If not, I will assume you wish to receive an N in this course and would rather repeat this term."

Seeing another option, Draco decided he would rather transfer to a different school but...

"This 'emotional partnership' starts the moment you walk out the door."

At the invitation to leave, Draco busted the hell out of the bloody classroom, wishing to put a million miles between him and his professor and Potter.

However, the Prat Who Lived was determined to do otherwise.

"Malfoy," he called out in that stupid prat-like voice of his.

Draco lengthened his stride, cursing at the amount of stairs he had to go up in order to get the hell away from Potter. He wondered if Blaise was waiting on the sixth floor, and he wondered if Blaise would hex Potter if the prat continued to follow him. Draco would be so grateful, he'd take back any threats he made towards him. Maybe he'd even take Blaise's offer of courtship.

"Stop ignoring me," Potter huffed, grabbing Draco's forearm and yanked him backwards. He flew back, sure he would have landed on his arse if not for a Potter's casually strong grip. "God, that was not what I was trying to do."

Draco scowled and tugged his arm back. Potter smiled apologetically, his eyes not quite looking at him. It was then that he realized Granger had really drilled Potter a new one. Thank Merlin.

"Look, Malfoy," Potter began, his palms facing Draco's direction in an attempt to placate him. He cleared his throat. "I... I don’t like you, and you don't like me. It sucks that we have to do this now and I know you'd rather do some random thing with Hermione like you promised over than talk here with me, but..."

"We have no choice, I understand," Draco bitterly replied. He wondered when Blaise would round the corner and pull himaway from the arrogant toerag Draco knew as the Prat Who Lived. "If we did, I'd much rather suck Pansy's toes than collaborate with an arrogant toerag like you."

Potter blinked. Then he laughed.

"What?" Draco demanded. Heat rushed to his face, suddenly feeling embarrassed for absolutely no reason whatsoever.

Potter's eyes snapped to his, looking away the moment he realized he was being a weirdo. "Sorry, just... that was something my mum used to say about my— er, I mean, that was just very random. Parkinson must have, er, very nice toes."

Draco stared at him.

"Sorry. I don't know why I said that," Potter huffed, sounding so pathetic even Draco pitied him. "I just— when do you want to meet? For the one thing we have to talk about."

Preferably never.

Draco told him so, earning an empathic nod from Potter.

"Yeah. I know." He received a blank stare for that reply. "So what's your favorite color."

"No."

Potter huffed. "Can't you at least pretend to cooperate?"

"Absolutely not," Draco said. Then he took a step back, facing Potter so he could physically fight the prat off if he tried to touch Draco again. Even the thought of Potter touching him had hatred brewing in his lower abdomen. "I need to get going."

"Me too. I have DADA," Potter said.

Draco frowned, not quite liking or understanding the tone of his voice. He figured Potter had lost a few screws after everything that happened. _'Everyone did.'_

"Remind Granger that she needs to meet me on Saturday night." Potter stared at him for a brief moment, looking away and pretending like he was pissed he'd caught himself bothering Draco. Draco unintentionally ignored it and spared Potter the embarrassment. He added stiffly, "Good day."

Then he all but ran away, ignoring Potter's shouts of indignance and questions about when they would talk about the stupid 'emotional partnership.' He could only hope Potter would get it through his thick skull that Draco wanted to be left alone.


	4. Potter And The Introduction of Hyacinthe P.B.

For some reason, after Potter got a taste of speaking to Draco and not awkwardly glaring him down everywhere he went, the idiot thought it would be appropriate to call out Draco's name every time they say each other and ask, "What's your favorite color?"

By Sunday, Draco was sick of it. He began avoiding the main corridors, choosing to venture through abandoned but clean hallways to avoid bumping into Potter on the way to the library. Somehow, Potter took notice and began bumping into him on purpose in these abandoned hallways. He'd then verbally harass Draco and ask him why he was so terrified of telling him his favorite color.

Potter was so aggravating, his entire house was sick of it by Tuesday. Draco had younger years come up to him, asking Draco to answer Potter's bloody question. Apparently, Potter's sudden, newfound interest in Draco sparked a lot of curiosity in the younger years, and his fellow Slytherins were being accused of sneaking Potter an attention potion keyed to Draco. So now Potter's stupid question was getting his fellow Slytherins attacked.

But still, Draco didn't cave.

He'd broken under pressure before, and it didn't turn out so well for either Slytherins or purebloods in the end.

But Draco was on the verge of breaking by Thursday morning, which was the day Blaise stormed to him, red with blood that was clearly both his and another person's, and demanded to know just what was so special about a color.

Draco didn't have the desire to tell him it wasn't about colors. Colors were a perfectly acceptable subject to talk about. Just... not with Potter. Especially when it concerned a  _ favorite _ of his.

Knowing a favorite thing of another person had always been something Draco only thought close friends do. That's why Pansy knew his favorite tea, his favorite plush, and his favorite shirt amongst many others. That's why Blaise knew his favorite brands and his favorite subjects amongst other things.

Potter on the other hand?

They were the farthest thing from friendship.

They were closer to... enemies who've become unwilling partners after an asshole of a professor decided they had to.

So no. No, Draco did not want to tell Potter his favorite color.

Even if he did, he knew that was a rotten rabbit hole to jump in. Because once Draco answers one of his questions, Potter would ask him more. He would ask for more and more and— and Potter already had his wand. He already had control over most of Draco's magic.

Why the hell would Draco give him more?

So he pointedly ignored Potter's seemingly relentless attempts to lure an answer out of him.

He ignored the sad, kicked puppy eyes Potter sent in his general direction every time too.

And, finally, Potter dropped the savior act on Thursday.

"Malfoy," he rudely huffed as he stomped into the NEWTs potion class.

He gripped Draco's forearm sharply, reminding Draco of his insane and dead aunt who had a habit of breaking skin with her nails. So Draco really couldn't help the screeching— much to his complete and utter horror— and clawing at Potter's hand to get him to let go. It was like he'd just become a feral cat, scratching and biting as a defense mechanism.

But Potter didn't even look like he was getting hurt by Draco's screeching and clawing. Instead, he looked a bit happy to drag Draco into a deserted corridor against his will.

"Let me go, Potter!" Draco demanded. When Potter didn't slow, he screamed at the onlookers they passed by. "Look! Potter's kidnapping me! You're all seeing me get kidnapped!"

"Oh my god, shut up, Malfoy," Potter snapped before he unexpectedly pushed Draco into an empty classroom.

Draco fell backwards, barely catching Potter's jumper and pulling him down with him. Potter groaned even though he clearly shouldn't be the one in pain. Draco was the one whose back was being assaulted by Potter's surprisingly strong arm. His arm suddenly shifted so he could inspect any possible injury, and just like that, his savior act returned.

Worry laced his emerald eyes. "You okay?"

Draco resisted the urge to slap him. His left side was currently pressed against Potter's side, and his right hand had landed rather awkwardly when he fell. Potter's left arm was, of course, carrying most of both of their weights. It was possibly the one thing that's making sure Draco doesn't actually twist his elbow.

Merlin, Draco didn't know if one could even twist an elbow.

He knew muggle athletes and very-dedicated-to-dares students could twist their ankles and their wrists, but he didn't know if one could twist an elbow. Well, it was probably referred to as 'breaking an arm.' Or did that phrase mean something else?

Draco didn't really care though.

"Potter," Draco gasped when the idiot's grip around his waist suddenly tightened.

He couldn't help the whimper that escaped from his throat when Potter tightened his grip even further, which was rather embarrassing if he was being honest. Then, as if Draco no longer had any say in when he could be embarrassing, Draco tossed his head back and slackened in Potter's arm, bringing his right hand up to rest against Potter's chest as though he was about to push him off.

He didn't though.

And Draco was pleasantly surprised to note that Potter was effortlessly carrying his entire weight along with his own. Not that he was any heavier than a hundred and twenty pounds now, but it was still impressive.

The pleasure turned into resentment when Draco glanced up at Potter and froze upon seeing the gobsmacked expression on his face.

Not that it was difficult with how close they were.

Their faces were only a few centimeters away from each other. Draco could see the light gold in Potter's emerald green eyes. He could memorize where each of Potter's faded freckles were located on that stupid face of his. His messy, I've-just-had-a-good-shag hair gently tickled Draco's face. His lips were so close, yet too far to Draco's own.

And yet...

And yet, all Draco could think was:  _ 'Huh. I didn't know Potter had freckles.' _

But then he remembered himself and looked at their position from an outsider's perspective.

Draco was hanging dangerously close to the ground. His hands were on Potter's chest in which could easily be considered romantic. His normally neat hair was most definitely tousled and his face was dangerously close to Potter's. And Potter was carrying his weight while in-between Draco's slightly bent legs, one hand defiantly pressed on the floor while the other was tightly wrapped around Draco's back.

It was an incredibly romantic position they were in.

It was a predicament Draco definitely should not be in with Potter.

Before Draco could feign his displeasure, Potter's arm gave out and they both collapsed onto the ground.

Moment thoroughly ruined, Draco groaned and ineffectively pressed against Potter's hard chest to push him off. He didn't want to die by being squished to death. A wizard must set high expectations for his death of course.

And Potter, the prat, didn't help.

Instead, he shifted so their bodies were somehow even more flushed against each other and muttered a soft apology in Draco's ear.

Draco shivered, almost instantly slapping himself out of it.

" _ Potter! _ " he snapped.

It was then that Potter bolted off of him. He held a hand out for Draco to take, but it was pointedly ignored.

"Merlin, what was that?" he cursed. He was obviously referring to Potter's display of strength. Not the odd tingle that ran up Draco's spine.

_ 'Fear. I'm feeling fear. What else could it have been?' _ Draco worried.

Draco sent him the nastiest look he had up his sleeve when Potter didn't respond within five seconds. Potter just rubbed the back of his nape and awkwardly smiled.

"Sorry," Potter unapologetically said.

Draco huffed and folded his arms, waiting impatiently for Potter to explain himself. He better have a bloody good reason. "Well? Why did you manhandle me out of my favorite class, Potter?"

"You don't have a favorite class. Hayes asked you and you said so."

Draco didn't know why Potter sounded like he was a 'Draco Malfoy' expert, but he didn't like it.

"Whatever. What do you want? I'm running late."

"Late for what? You have a free period next."

Heat rushed to his face.

"I— how do you know that?" Choosing to not take the bait, Draco cleared his throat and managed a straight face. "Even though I have a free period, Blaise still asked to see me after Potions."

"Zabini didn't even talk to you during Potions. He was working with Smith and you were working four tables away from him." Potter sighed. "Malfoy, you're a horrible liar."

"Not true. I've lied loads of times! I don't get caught."

"Yeah. And Hermione doesn't like books and Ron isn't the best of all of us at Wizard's Chess."

"Weasley can play Wizard's Chess too?" Draco blurted, much to his utter horror. He lowered his head and wondered if Potter would hex him if he ran out the door right now. "I mean, what do you want, Potter? I'm busy."

"You know what I want."

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do."

"No, I don't, Potter. If I did, I probably would have done something about if before you harassed me."

There was an angry huff.

"I didn't harass you, Malfoy," Potter said. "And before you say anything, I didn't kidnap you either."

Not quite liking how Potter said that so matter-of-factly, Draco forced himself to look up and glare at him. "I wasn't going to say that."

"Of course not," Potter agreed.

Draco took a small step back. "I'm not asking you this again, Potter. What do you want?"

Potter sighed, looking down before turning his intense gaze back towards Draco. "Why are you avoiding me?"

Draco nervously laughed and dropped his gaze again. "Have you finally lost your marbles, Potter? Why would I— I'm not avoiding you, Potter."

"You are," Potter said. He ducked his head slightly, catching Draco's eyes and forcing him to stare back into them. "And I was just trying to get it over with. You know, the thing Hayes wants us to do. If we don't, we're not going to be allowed to graduate. You know how McGonagall put her class as a requirement."

Draco pursed his lips and looked away. "Why do you care?"

They both knew Potter was more than welcome to just walk into the Auror department and take their countless job offers. Potter didn't need to graduate from Hogwarts to survive.

Draco, though... Draco needed a Hogwarts graduate degree, the highest of all praises from the Headmistress (impossible), Potter in his arm (impossible), and a perfect, incredibly detailed resume to even be considered as someone who deserved to not be spat on.

"I don't," Potter replied as though he could hear what Draco was thinking. "But you do."

"So you're saying you pity me?"

"No. No, Malfoy, that's not what I'm saying," he insisted. "For God's sake, what would I even pity you for?"

Unnerved, Draco shrugged. "I don't know. You tell me."

Potter sighed. "Look, Malfoy. It's just a question a week anyways. I promise the questions won't even slightly threaten your grades, sanity, or anything dramatic like that."

"You're currently threatening my sanity right now," Draco retorted. But then his resolve wavered under emerald eyes. "As long as you swear it..."

"I swear," Potter promised, sounding surprisingly earnest.

"Fine. It's emerald," Draco said.

For a moment there, Draco thought Potter didn't get what he was referring to. But then the smile he received was bright and warm, reassuring him of otherwise.

"Mine's silver," Potter replied.

He took several steps back, his smile not wavering in the slightest as he walked closer to the door Draco was so eager to run out of moments before. It was surprisingly easy to make Potter smile, Draco realized. He didn't want to realize it, but it'd always been impossible for him to not notice any bit of information about Potter.

"Wait," Draco called out, sighing right after.

Potter turned. "Yeah?"

"Stop making questions up on your own," Draco said. "I wasn't—" He closed his eyes, dropped his head, and clenched his fists. "I should at least be given the freedom to tell you what the fact is."

When Draco looked up, Potter was wearing this sad, empathetic expression.

"Okay. See you tomorrow morning, Malfoy."

Draco blinked. "Tomorrow morning?"

"Before classes? Hayes said we needed to talk with her every Friday morning," Potter reminded.

And then he was gone before Draco could utter a goodbye in return.

Not that he wanted to.

Goodbyes were overrated anyways.

Draco walked out of the classroom, ignoring the odd looks he was given. On the way to the Slytherin Commons, he realized just how... suggestive him leaving— with his hair all tousled too— an empty classroom not two minutes after Potter left.

He shuddered, quickly fixing his hair as he stepped inside.

"Draco," Blaise called, a hint of curiosity and amusement in his voice. "You're rather late. Whose chamber of secrets did you venture into this time?"

Heat rushed to his face. "No one's!"

Honestly. Every time Draco's hair was slightly messy, Blaise was on his case and wondering whether or not Draco got laid. It used to be amusing (and hot) while they were dating, but now it was just annoying. Especially when Draco did not, in fact, get into anyone's 'chamber of secrets.'

"Right," Blaise drawled. "And Potter didn't 'kidnap' you."

Draco glared at him, hoping to look like a pissed off dragon rather than an annoyed, red-faced hamster. Judging by Blaise's chuckle, however, he seemed like the latter.

"Alright, fine." Then he handed Draco a neatly packed box with a dashing gold and silver bow. The colors of the Parkinson crest. And if that wasn't enough of an indication for the parcel belonging to Pansy, the ginormous glitter pansexual flag was. "It's something that was delivered for you during breakfast."

Draco stopped admiring the delicate work of the pretty bow. "What are you talking about? Owls only come on Mondays."

"It's from Pansy," he said. Draco rolled his eyes.

"Obviously," Draco drawled.

He began walking towards the boys' dormitories, hoping Blaise wasn't following him to probe about Potter. It was only when they were behind Draco's door did Blaise speak up again.

"You know, Draco, you should write her a letter tonight."

"What about?"

"Your unlikely friendship with Granger," Blaise said. "She'll thank you five times over."

"For Merlin's sake. Granger and I are not friends," Draco huffed for what seemed to be the third time that day. It was probably just the second time though. "Now go away. You should be harassing Theo or Daph right about now."

"I'd rather bother you," Blaise said.

Draco sometimes wondered if Blaise was Satan's spawn.

But still, he rolled his eyes fondly and unwrapped the parcel gently. He set the parcel aside, picking up the letter perched on top of a worn-out journal.

His heart raced with anticipation.

_ (Gay)co Malfoy, _

_ Your mother recently found this journal while she was cleaning up the west wing of the Grimmauld Place. It belongs to your late uncle Regulus, and she wanted you to know she respects your coming-out. Apparently, late uncle Reggie was quite the blood traitor. Anyways, your mother would like to remind you to thank Potter for letting her preserve and restore the Black house. For some reason, she believes you have not done so yet. _

_ Now, for the highlight of your day: my part of the letter! _

_ I miss you dearly, Draco. I wish you were here in Paris. The weather is quite lovely and the sights are beautiful, but it isn't the same without you. I hope you aren't thinking of becoming a hermit again. If you are, I've already done my research and found that there are several caves (not really, but I can make some) in France. If you aren't, come work with me. The Healer program is quite exceptional. The eye-candy isn't so bad either. _

_ Oh, and accents are lovely, aren't they? They're rather sexy if I may say so myself. Maybe I would have fancied you if you let your French accent come out a bit more. If not for your garbage personality and the fact you're absolutely mad for blokes, not incredible witches like me. _

_ I'll never understand that by the way. _

_ Women are lovely creatures and I'd love it if you would finally stop being a bastard and send me some pensieves of delicious eye candy. _

_ Stop giving this letter the evil eye, Draco. We both know that while Hogwarts' students are very rarely good looking, there have been some rare gems like you and I. Blaise, of course, is not one of us. He's the piece of coal and I'll never understand how we managed to become friends. _

_ Anyways, I know some people have become more gorgeous while I've been away. I demand to hear about the list of all the eye-candy there. And Draco, I know you're gay and this can be quite the difficult task for you considering that you can't see a gorgeous woman if they're two centimeters away from you, but a pansexual cis woman has her needs. _

_ And France's best are currently not available or ripe for the picking. _

_ Note to you, Draco: please tell Blaise to stop hovering over your shoulder. He should know when to fuck off by now. _

_ Adieu from your dearest, _

_ (Pans)y Parkinson _

Draco let a fond smile creep to his face.

Then, setting the letter beside him gently and turning to Blaise, Draco smirked.

Blaise arched a perfect brow. "Well?"

"Pans told me to tell you to fuck off."

"Ugh. Horrid witch," Blaise huffed. He dramatically sauntered out of the room, obviously itching to tell Pansy off in a letter.

Draco laughed the moment the door closed behind his friend, grinning to himself like an idiot whilst shaking his head. Pansy clearly wasn't wrong. She certainly was the highlight of his day. Well, when compared to everything that had happened on this fateful Thursday, of course she was.

Draco lifted the box's lid and picked up the tattered, old-fashioned journal. It was leather— the best kind to write in— and when he picked it up to take a closer look, he took notice of the neatly engraved words on the cover.

_ 'My Hyacinthe P.B' _ it read.

Draco stared.

Then he said, in his loudest voice, "Who in Merlin's name is 'Hyacinthe P.B'?"

He was almost certain he pronounced the name wrong. How does one even pronounce such a difficult name like 'Hyacinthe'? His mother probably knew.

Draco flipped open the journal, admiring the delicate writing yet not reading the words. Then he felt a slight shimmer of magic course through him, and he quickly muttered the revealing charm. A wizard, grinning at him like he hung the moon and stars, greeted him with a shy, yet authoritative wave.

_ 'If I wasn't sure I was gay back then, I certainly am sure now,' _ Draco mused.

The wind seemed to blow in the opposite direction of the wizard, lightly brushing back the wizard's mop-like dark hair. Eyes brown and cheeks flushed, the wizard wore a charming suit. While he waved with his right hand, he fiddled with his wand in his left. Nervousness, obviously, but happy. Liberated.

And, this wizard did look an awful lot like someone Draco knew.

Someone Draco saw on a daily basis, someone Draco interacted with whether willingly or unwillingly every day...

_ 'He kind of looks like Potter.' _

Draco swore and nearly threw the journal across the room. Instead, he settled for setting it beside him and trying not to kill himself. He succeeded, though he was very much tempted to go through with it.

He couldn't believe he thought someone who looked like Potter was attractive.

Potter wasn't attractive.

His arms were free of any muscle (which wasn't true since Draco had felt his now-defined muscles pulsing as Potter held them both up with only one arm— very impressive by the way) and his legs were awfully short (which kind of wasn't true since he was only a few centimeters shorter than Draco and Draco was about one hundred ninety centimeters tall) and his messy, always-looking-like-he-had-a-decent-shag hair wasn't nice to look at either (which definitely wasn't true because Draco had been stupefied by how charming it was from only a few centimeters away). His stupid round glasses were also exceptionally annoying to see all the time. The last was definitely true.

With how many times he's seen Potter's specs, Draco could never think anyone (else) was attractive with them.

Merlin, that's not what he meant.

He liked glasses just fine. In fact, he uses a pair on occasion.

Draco just meant to say he didn't think  _ Potter _ was attractive. There was just a charm casted on the journal that made Draco think the wizard in relation to the ugliest, most scrawny person he knew was attractive.

Reassured but still shaken, Draco tentatively moved to pick the journal up again and flipped the picture over.

**_1976: Cinthe wanted to meet Mother and Father. He's nervous because of our idiot brothers. I've decided: at James' wedding, I'm going to set fire to his robes. It's the least that arse deserves for stressing my tesero out._ **

Draco's jaw fell open.

"Oh Merlin. Merlin, no," Draco whispered.

After that, Draco found himself completely and utterly speechless for the second time in his life.

He almost didn't want to believe it. But the evidence was sitting right in front of him.

His uncle, his sacredly  _ dead _ uncle had feelings for a  _ Potter _ .

Draco could feel his sanity drain away.

'Hyacinthe P.B.'

Draco knew what the 'P' and the 'B' stood for now.

"Potter-Black," Draco choked out, still not quite believing it. "Oh Merlin. How did that ever happen? Who let it happen? Who thought it was a good idea? Oh Merlin. Uncle Regulus— Potter— ugh."

He contemplated roaming the halls just to grab Potter by his collar on the way to his Defense Against Dark Arts class and demand to know if Potter knew about a marital bond between the Potters and the Blacks, but ultimately decided against it. After all, it would be rather weird. Potter had just learned about Draco's favorite color today— and emerald technically wasn't even his real favorite color.

It was just the first color Draco could possibly think of after being pinned under Potter's gaze for way too long for him to be comfortable. Besides, Draco had pointedly tried to avoid Potter's emerald eyes after getting out of that very risky conversation, hoping he wouldn't have a panic attack in front of him. Not that he knew it at the time, yes, but still.

It wasn't as if Draco could blurt out 'red' to a  _ Gryffindor _ . 

There were so many ways that conversation could go wrong. For starters, Potter could assume Draco liked red because he liked the color of blood, and there were too many things wrong with that for Draco to get into. As though the 'blood' theory wasn't bad enough, Potter could also assume Draco liked red because his favorite flowers were roses.

Not that Potter knows what his favorite flowers were.

At least, he shouldn't.

If he did, Draco wanted to know who his sources were and why the hell Potter reached out to his sources.

Luckily, the conversation did not go down that road at all.

He decided against manhandling Potter out of his class to interrogate him, instead settling down on his bed and resigning to the fact Potter most likely didn't know anymore than he did. He closed his eyes, breathed in deeply, and took notice of the sounds of the small ripples in the Great Lake made against his window, his steady heartbeat, and the faint hum of magic pulsing in the air. When he finally felt calmer, he opened his eyes and glanced at the leather journal again.

He snatched it.

He copied the picture of Hyacinthe to a parchment paper.

He tucked Hyacinthe’s picture in the pockets of his robes.

Then, pretending as though he understood why he did such a thing, Draco hid the journal in a secret compartment of his bookshelf. He locked it firmly, drawing a blood symbol over the compartment. The symbol glowed then dimmed.

Afterwards. Draco rested his forehead against the wall, wondering what the hell was wrong with him.

"Too much, I reckon," Draco muttered.

He turned away from the bookshelf and sat down at his desk. He stared down at Pansy's letter. He picked up his quill and began writing.

_ Dearest (Pans)y Parkinson... _


End file.
